


Hello, I love you

by peasncarrots



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Established Relationship, Field, M/M, Romeo and Juliet References, Silly, playful, summertime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22276813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasncarrots/pseuds/peasncarrots
Summary: Mike sighs dramatically, facing the sky. “Oh dear, oh darling–I think he’s died on me.”
Relationships: Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 5
Kudos: 75





	Hello, I love you

**Author's Note:**

> When I tell you I hee'd my final hee. This is god awful, really. I've been stressed as a mf lately so I wrote this shit as a reminder that I still can finish things. They're a bit out of character because I don't care. Yes my writing is brief. That's how I like it.

  
  
  


Will Byers thinks he’s so bad. 

So bad, in fact, that he turns in his papers on time. He sits up straight like one of those girls they put on magazine covers, doesn’t mouth off to his teachers, always has an acceptable excuse for being late, is an  _ artist _ , only lies about little things and has a fifty watt smile that may as well put whoever he gives it to in the ground because there’s really no coming back after that. Mike’s mother thinks he’s the greatest thing since Jesus and wants to know about the wellness of his family and where he’s been the last two weeks and does he really have his driver's license  _ already? _

A courteous, polite boy could  _ never  _ be unruly. 

That is, unless he wants something. 

He doesn’t like praise, he doesn’t preen, he doesn’t sit around and wait to be told how glad they are to have him there–compliments serve his uncomfortability and ample gestures are taken with an unsure hand, and he seems to be as aware of himself as the neighbor man’s cat that wandered off months ago. He glues his eyes to the carpet when Max puffs up the drawings she convinces him to let her see, doesn’t return the eyes from sophomore girls and ignores the slightly provocative ones that come from the secretary at the hospital who looks as if she graduated last year. 

But when Mike’s got his hands in something else, when he’s ridiculing the plot of a movie that was atrocious enough for Will to get even though he doesn’t have cable, or staring at some lady and her awfully behaved children as severely as Rubberneck Randy from the post office, when he’s  _ focusing _ , Will thinks he should toy with his fingers under the table at AV meetings and play the imperial march on the top of his thigh or guide his hands into the back pockets of his jeans when people are  _ around _ . 

They’re in the field one day when impending grey clouds are covering the sun but it’s still hot enough to cook chicken on the hood of a car. The grass is long and itchy and unpleasantly full of ladybugs and beetles and Will cracks him on the arm he’s got dire sunburn on and thinks he’s going to get away with it. 

“ _ Sor– _ ry _ – _ ” Comes as he flees, meaningless, drawn out. It’s the kind of apology that is as empty as the grand canyon. He rips up the grass and tosses it at Mike, so Mike tackles him like he’s got a hold of the football and it’s fourth down. 

Mike instantly assumes a fight, straining his muscles, fingers grasping for something to hold down. The undersides of Will’s forearms–unlike his face which has been barely pinkened by the sun, are pale and soft, supple, and  _ limp _ . 

He studies him. 

All of him is. He’s playing dead. 

Head rolled to the side. Eyelids civilly closed. Dark lashes lying over the tips of his cheeks with noticeable contrast. Steadied, slight breath raising his chest trivially. 

Mike hunches over him, like he’s looking for the unknown sharp thing he stepped on in the carpet. “Get up ding dong.” 

No movement. Will’s replies are replaced with offhand cheeps from birds that likely sense an approaching storm. 

But. As light as an undetectable muscle twitch, the corner of Will’s lip does a thing. 

Mike sees. 

It falls back into submission. 

He releases Will’s left arm–it remains still and lifeless–and audibly picks a large piece of grass from near Will’s ear. He wheedles it against Will’s neck, like he’s playing with a stray cat. 

“ _ Heere’s _ _ Johnny. _ ” 

Will turns his head suddenly, trapping the grass between his neck and shoulder. He laughs silently, mouth closed. 

Now he smiles. 

Will, with his gentle voice. With his proper-ness, his cautiousness, his carefulness. With his tube socks and jeans that have ink drawings on the thighs and the  _ Will is gay _ Mike wrote over the waste band of his boxers.  _ Will  _ with his flowery pillowcases, pink fingertips and rosebud lips he uses to mouth the words of records with so well. 

Wind goes through the trees. It sounds how it does before it rains. Smells that way too.

Mike sighs dramatically, facing the sky. “Oh dear, oh darling–I think he’s died on me.” 

He waits until it’s very quiet again. The grass sings. 

“ _ I’ve killed him! _ ” He cries suddenly, shoving his head into Will’s chest. He’s trying to be as climatic and tragic as actors in Shakespeare plays. “I’ve killed my beloved! With my own hands!...how will I...how will I  _ live? _ ” 

And he rolls off of him. Onto his back. He stares at the sky. It’s gray. He smells daisies. Pollen. His eyes are wide. He hyperventilates. 

As if he’s made an overwhelming discovery; “I won't.” 

He stabs an invisible object into his chest, arching his back, giving a convulse and a disturbing noise. 

Deliberately, acting is beyond him. His applause, however, is laughter–which quickly is restrained and fought into an; 

“ _ Oh no! _ ” 

The grass rustles. Hands finds his shoulders, palm over his chest, settle on his face, almost cradle his jaw. One goes to the back of his head, as if he’s stabilizing it, holding it up–as if Mike can’t. 

“My–my–my  _ lover! _ ” 

Gravely, Mike opens his eyes like the lids are made of lead. 

He meets green. Drawn eyebrows. Lips losing to a smile. 

There’s a pause. Will raises his head as Mike had, eyes tightly shut. “ _ WHY! _ ” 

Mike shushes him feebly, as if he’s just wheezed, and Will returns to him, trying very hard to play his part. Mike does his most at croaking his own out. His final words–his last stand. 

“Thine shall liveth on..” 

Will’s fingers find ways into his hair as he immediately objects. “But _how?_ _I ca–_ ” 

“Shut up,” Mike says, informally, breaking character. Will’s conflicted face falters and he snorts, smile no longer containable, shoulders jerking, and Mike carries on. 

He coughs fakely.

“Thine happiness…” He rasps, like he’s eaten sand. “Is my final wish.” He makes a withering hand gesture, a vague, feathery thing, and as soon as he sees Will glance down at it, he ceases, letting the back of his hand fall onto the grass with a soft sound. 

The effect is staggering. 

Will sobs, “ _ No! _ ” and kisses him  _ desperately.  _

It makes Mike’s eyelashes flutter. 

When it breaks, there’s a noise, and Mike’s eyes fly open with it, brows raised. 

He looks up, and all he sees is Will. He gathers the saliva in his mouth and swallows. 

“Cut.” 

Will laughs, and it’s airy. Like air. He lets go and lies down beside him. Mike rolls over onto him and begins mumbling nonsense. Acting a fool, because he is. 

He presses his mouth to Will’s neck while the grass whisks his cheek and he feels warm breath against his ear that bleeds over-contentment into it as he goes on and on. “ _ –gorgeous, lovely, exquisite, star of the show–you know you are. _ ”

Will nudges him away like he’s being tickled, trying small, protesting words. Mike doesn’t have to see the smile to know it’s there, it’s happening. It is. It’s audible. 

When he’s far enough to look at him, Will says, breathing heavily, “ _ Easy, killer. _ ” 

He’s flushed. 

Mike pokes him in the side. “Make me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Gay incorrect romoe and juul. Did not edit this


End file.
